A Fox, a Rooster, and a Lady
by Arquenniel
Summary: Jack Sparrow is at a masked ball in London. Why? For a Jack Sparrow Reason! A vicious man is close on his tail. The ball becomes a trap. Will Miss Rowe, the haughty toast of London society, help Jack escape? ONESHOT


**A/N:** Hello! This oneshot takes place back before Jack was captain of the _Black Pearl_. It also takes place before my fanfic _The Battle of Brimstone Hill_, for those of you who have read it. (This is the oneshot about Jack and Lady Rowe's history that I promised like last May). Jack doesn't have his massive reputation yet but is well on his way to earning it, as you will see! Hope this makes you laugh!

* * *

1768 A.D.

9:34 pm.

London, England.

A rooster tiptoed into the scrumptious Rowe parlor.

Nobody noticed. A fox was already perched on a red velvet chair, reticent and watchful. A lion stalked by, followed by a deer. A horse and a parrot parlayed near a floor-to-ceiling window. A peacock strutted into the room, took one look at the rooster, and gave a mocking yowl.

"Why, it's a zoo!" the rooster clucked in outrage. It waddled on foil feet out of the parlor and down the hall. It had to squeeze past a sultan chatting merrily with a knight and a medieval lady flirting with a Viking.

The Viking got the rooster's impressive tail across the face and almost inhaled a feather. "Blasted barnyard fowl!" he growled, but then his medieval paramour began to undo one of his braids and the world was good again.

The Viking didn't notice the fox from the parlor slip past. The fox's gleaming green eyes were fixed on the magnificent rooster tail, which was trying to choke other guests.

Yes, the rooster's tail made a stir when it entered the dining room, but the rooster didn't notice. His dark eyes, almost hidden behind a huge foil beak, were devouring his surroundings. The room was practically edible, painted lemon-meringue yellow with white trim and moldings. Two massive chandeliers were poised above the innocent guests like glittering ice needles ready to plummet. Two long, white tables took up the length of the room, flashing with candelabra and forks and food.

The room sounded like a roaring river, there were so many masked people sitting, standing, leaning, touching, talking, and stuffing themselves with comestibles and light liquor. The rooster bounced contentedly.

The fox approached. The rooster whirled around with a paranoid squawk.

The fox ducked behind a six-foot wood sprite.

The rooster looked quite grim as he scanned the sprite. Then his eyes landed on a glowering sea goddess. "Do control your tail!" she snapped, the shells in her black hair quivering.

The rooster bowed in profound apology and his tail said hello to the towering wood sprite, who batted it aside. Miffed, the rooster grabbed the tail and held it over his arm like a train. He continued on.

He arrived at the punch bowl and crowed softly at an Oriental princess, who turned up her white nose and minced away. The rooster flapped a weary wing after her and then picked up a glass.

A hand in a soft red glove hit the bottom of his glass and the punch splattered all over the rooster's gloriously feathered breast. "Oi!" he squawked, turning toward the offender. Then he froze.

The fox took the punch glass right out of the rooster's hand. "We have the house surrounded," it said in a low masculine voice. "You cannot escape."

The rooster flapped his wings huffily. "Why would I want to escape this symposium of silliness? And by the _bye-bye_, your taste in costume is deplorable. This…ensemble could be improved." He threw a fresh cup of punch in the fox's face and scurried away from the uproar, holding his tail across his front.

He darted through the dancing room and through the first discrete door he encountered. He found himself in a well-lit hallway with stairs at the end. He scuttled up the stairs, catching a talon on a step and slamming face-first into the floor.

Muttering curses, he clambered to his feet in a cloud of feathers. This was another hallway with three imperious doorways. He picked the middle one and congratulated himself when it opened.

He entered the most flowery bedroom he had ever seen.

The massive four-poster bed was carved with tulips and roses and daisies. The bedspread was a garden. The rugs were gardens. The curtains looked like hanging chains of roses. The windows were stained glass flowers.

"Flowers make me sneeze," he said with dismay.

"I'll tell them not to put any on your grave." This voice came from the right, trembling and feminine.

The rooster jumped back with a burbling noise, his wings curled to his chest. "Who're –didn't-you- see!"

The young woman in gorgeous blue gown glared at him. "When flowers bloom in spring."

A very awkward silence fell. The rooster didn't move.

"Pardon?" he finally said.

She reached slowly into her right sleeve. "When. Flowers. Bloom. In. Spring."

"The…little bees sing?" The rooster threw his wings up. "What kind of gibberish is this, woman?

"The fatal kind," she snapped. Suddenly she pulled a tiny pistol from her lacy sleeve and pointed it at his beak.

He was already pointing one of his wings at her. He glanced at the feathery mass, huffed, and folded up the end. A shining pistol was revealed, aimed right for the woman's forehead.

Her eyes went wide.

"Mine's bigger," the rooster sang smugly.

The color had drained from her face. She began to tremble. "I-I…" her eyes filled with tears and she dropped her pistol. "Please, sir, don't shoot; this dress was made in Paris and the blood…" a sob broke past her soft lips, "and my father, he couldn't stand if-if…" here, her emotion took over and she slumped slowly to her knees, choking and blubbering.

The rooster shifted uncomfortably. "Waterworks…bugger…"

The woman wailed, pulling a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and covering her face.

"All right," the rooster tried to say firmly. "All right." The woman didn't seem to hear him. "All right, all _right!_ Tears'll ruin your nice dress just's bad as blood would."

"Oh!" she looked down at her dress, saw a dark damp spot, and burst into fresh sobs.

The rooster sighed heavily and stashed his pistol under his feathers. Then he stepped forward and reached for the pistol. The woman fell back with a cry of alarm. One of her feet darted between his and slammed into the back of his calf, twisting. He lost his balance and folded ignominiously to the side, feathers poofing up gloriously.

The woman scrambled to her feet, using him for leverage. As she did, her grasping hands found his pistol. He grabbed it before she could stand, the beak of his costume falling back to reveal his face. The woman saw him and hesitated in surprise.

He yanked the pistol out of her hand. She snarled and lunged for it so he threw it across the room. "I'm laying on top of yours," he said pleasantly. "Care to try t'move me?"

She clambered to her feet in a tangle of blue skirts and white petticoats, her face flushed and furious. "I know who you are working for!" she marched toward the far-flung pistol. "He is going to regret sending you up here. Anything you try – aah!" she tripped over his extended foot and fell flat.

In one fluid motion he came to his feet, her tiny pistol in his hand. "Be a love and stay."

She glared up at him from the floor.

He began ripping his costume off, muttering obscenities at it.

He was not any older than she was, and lithe, probably the result of combined hunger and hard labor. There were beads in his hair and he wore a loose cotton shirt. A woven sash circled his waist.The voluminous sleeves were dirty and one cuff was ripped. His breeches were just as dirty, and had scorch marks. But his knee-high boots caught her eye. They spoke of the sea. This was no street rat.

"Do you work for Sandman?" she asked.

"Who is Sandman?" He marched to a window and peered through the curtains. On his way, he scooped up the other pistol and stuck it in his belt.

Up on one elbow, still eyeing the pistol in his hand, she continued. "But you're not real guest, are you?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" He moved urgently to another window, peered out, and cursed.

"Is _that_ a rhetorical question?" she snapped back.

"Is _my_ question a rhetorical question?" he turned to face her. "Good question. But I don't care."

"If you don't work for Sandman and you're not a real guest, who are you?"

"Poultry about to be roasted by a fanatical fox." He gave her a bow as he stalked past her, taking stock of the room.

"Fox?" She sounded alarmed.

"Aye."

She started to rise, and then lowered herself again. "There's a fox here? Did he wear red gloves?"

"Not seeing th'significance of that," he sang, "but yes."

Her face hardened. "The audacity of that man!" Now she came to her feet, composed. "The fox is Sandman. He always wears red gloves."

"Jolly," he said flatly. "And since that pox-ridden, cockroach-befriended Tom Jukes couldn' get me anything better'n that inside-out mattress, I've left a trail." He flapped his hand at feathery pile that was his costume.

"Sandman is after you?" The woman took a step forward and then froze when the man raised his pistol warily.

"I think that's been established…though in an indirectly ambiguous manner," he said.

She looked angry. "And you've left him a trail to follow here!"

"Why should that be so indisturbaging?" he asked flatly. "You have no reason to fear him; you're Miss Rowe, aren't you?"

She nodded brusquely.

"Perhaps you'd also like to explain why y'had this." He held up the pistol.

"Sandman is a…very powerful man in the criminal world. He and I are…involved in something that pits us against each other. I had a pistol because of that."

"Really." He stopped at stared intensely at her. Suddenly the pistol was out again, aimed for her face. "How do I know you've not joined forces with him to catch me?"

She glowered at him. "A rat like you is hardly worth my time."

"Huh." He advanced on her, slowly, then faster, abruptly wrapping an arm around her and yanking her close. The pistol's muzzle found the skin behind her ear. "I'm sorry to do this," he said softly, "but like all males, I've an innate distrust of the female sex. Are you sure you aren't trying t'catch me?"

For a moment, she didn't say anything. She didn't even struggle. Then finally, flatly, "You smell like a pig sty."

"Thank you. You smell like a garden." He tilted his head as if to smell her neck and she wrenched her head back.

"This isn't a gothic novel," she gritted. "You're being impossibly cliché."

He pursed his lips, frowning thoughtfully. "But this is good because all yourr novel-reading friends will be jealous."

"You don't understand," she said patiently. "Being forcefully embraced by a random fugitive is not an enviable experience."

"I can see that, but some day when me reputation has grown, you'll be considered lucky."

"I am in awe," she said, "of your arrogance."

He kicked at the leg of the bed angrily. "You're making this difficult."

"As a captive, that would be my logical occupation."

"Tarred squash an' nettles on a log, _are you trying to ca_-"

"No I am not! I don't even know who you are!"

He made a face. "All right then." He lowered the pistol, and then paused. His pretty eyes surveyed her face, catching on her lips.

"I will hunt you down if you even try," she growled.

One eyebrow twitched. "Later, then. Now, stay." With a wicked grin he released her and went to her door. He stashed the pistol in his sash then pressed his ear against the wood.

"You aren't thinking of leaving," she said quietly.

"No," he said, velvet voice thin with sarcasm. "I'm listening f'your door's heartbeat. Of course I'm thinking of leaving."

"What's your name?"

"Jack Sparrow," he muttered vaguely. The instant his hand grasped the door handle, hers was on top of his. Her perfume washed over him and he found her face inches from his. With a disturbed grunt he jerked his head back.

"Are you addled?" she hissed. "You know that if you leave, you'll die."

"Beg yer pardon missy, but _you_'re the only person here who's aimed a pistol at me noggin."

"Don't wave excuses in my face," she retorted. "If you leave you'll be walking away from an ally."

He glanced to the side. "Ally…my costume?"

She ground her teeth. "Don't play games-"

"Then _you_ don't play games," he interrupted hotly. "If you're the ally I'm walking away from, just say it for the love of god. Blast you women, you prance around your points like mice."

She moved away. "Mice don't prance."

"Like you've ever seen a mouse, Miss I'm the Daughter of the Richest Slave Trader in England."

"He's not the richest. And I _have_ seen mice. If I hadn't, seeing you would suffice." She walked into a massive closet. He followed.

"Oh, you're clever _and_ rich. Won't your husband absolutely despise you, you shrewish rodent of a woman-"

She whirled on him and shoved a pile of underclothing into his arms. "Stuff those into your costume, _Monsieur Astucieux_."

Affronted, he stood oblivious to the extremely lacy garments in his arms. "Ah, she knows French. Wif any luck, you'll be mistaken as a spy an' hung."

"Quite," she agreed, pushing him out of the closet. "Right after you are hung for invading my bedroom."

"Blokes aren't hung for that sort of thing anymore, these aren't the Dark Ages," he sneered as he knelt down next to his costume and began to savagely shove the clothing inside.

"Stand back, O knowledgable scholar." The woman came up with three little red bottles. She opened each and dumped red lip paint onto the feathers. Jack watched, grimacing, his hands twined reflexively against his chest.

The woman stashed the glass bottles inside the vaguely round shape and then darted back to the closet. She emerged with a long red shawl and a brown bonnet. She stuffed the red shawl into the underclothing. Then she tied the chicken mask and the bonnet on one end of the figure, wrenching it tight.

Footsteps thudded in the corridor some ways down.

The foil talons were shoved into the end opposite from the bonnet.

She rose, cheeks flushed, and marched back into the closet. "You must do exactly as I say." She reappeared with a long, flowing nightgown and a nightcap. "Put these on."

Moaning, Jack obeyed. As he struggled with the voluminous silk, she dragged the feathery figure toward the window.

"Get into the bed," she marched back to him. "Take this vase –" she grabbed one from under a mirror and shoved it into his arms. "Vomit in it as much as you can."

"Ahh…" Jack's eyes were wide.

"Just do as I say!" she hissed. "I am going to leave but my maid will come and tend to you according to my instructions. When you get belowstairs, mingle. I will meet you."

She whirled back to the window, glanced out, and then wrenched it open. She heaved the feathery figure out. "Act disturbed!" she hissed, coming at him and pushing him toward the bed. "You just leaped out of this window, terrifying yourself!"

With an unhappy noise he toppled back onto the bed. Gathering her skirts, she lunged to the door and listened. Then she yanked it open and slid through. The door closed behind her soundlessly.

Jack sat up, staring at the trail of feathers. An instant later, footsteps pounded down the hallway. He shoved himself under the comforter with a groan.

* * *

Willis was Sandman's second in command, and therefore didn't get a costume. He just looked like muscly, grimy old Willis. He was beyond caring at the moment, thought, for he was about to catch one of the thorns that had dug deepest into his master's side.

Jack Sparrow.

Bloodlust humming through his veins, he led Yates and Pickering abovestairs. They weren't allowed in the upper levels of the Rowe mansion, but since when had the rules meant anything to Sandman?

Following the feather trail was easy enough. When it vanished beneath an oaken door, Willis stopped and slammed it open.

The sickly smell of vomit made him gag right off. Then he saw the woman in the bed, heaving her guts into a vase. A blond maid stood nearby, crying into her hands and pointing at the open window. "He went – he just jumped out-" she wailed.

Willis followed the feathers to the window and looked out. He gasped.

Below, Talbot and Menning had been assigned to street duty. Now they were hesitantly approaching a gory splatter on the cobbles. It was all feathers and a long smear of blood…

Sandman had to be told.

Willis ran from the awful room with his awful news. By the time he reached Sandman in an alley, Menning had run up as well.

Sandman heard that Jack Sparrow had committed suicide. Then he heard that the body was no more than the fool's costume, a lady's scarf, and a bunch of lady's underthings. "Rowe," he growled.

By the time Willis was climbing the stairs again, terror for his own life clawing at his throat, the vomiting woman and the maid had disappeared.

* * *

In the dancing room, the three Fates were squashed together on a plush bench, heads together. Instead of passing an eye and a tooth around, they passed information. And instead of snipping the threads of hapless mortals' lives, they snipped the tapestries of people's reputations to ribbons with razor-sharp tongues.

"Try to imagine the look on Lord Davies' face when he opened the door! Not only was his wife playing paramour with his best friend, but the stable boy was trying to get in on the fun!"

They dissolved into helpless laughter.

"This," the blond Fate 1 gasped, "wouldn't have been so horrid if Lord Davies hadn't been on his way to his own love on the side…"

"Who? Who?" the other two squealed like rabid squirrels. The blond leaned in a whispered into their ears.

They pulled back, red mouths forming perfect O's, painted eyes round behind their masks.

"_No_," the brunette Fate Three whispered.

"Oh, yes," the blond said.

Grins that would make the Grim Reaper wish he could run to Mummy spread across their faces and they leaned back together. Whispers rose up from their conference like foul smoke.

"Excuse me, dears. Lovely dance, isn't it?"

The three looked up at the speaker in surprise. Their eyes fell over her critically. Wearing a strange brown silk, she had reasonable curves and the skin of her neck was very white. Not that there was much skin to see; she was wearing a lace shawl wrapped around her shoulders like a winter cloak. Behind a gloriously iridescent mask that covered her whole face, her eyes were dark.

"Hello, I am Iridia Lennox, just back from India," she simpered as she sat on a low futon before them.

"What are you supposed to be?" Fate Three asked, taking a sip of sherry from the glass in her hand.

A glorious, golden fan was gracefully furled. It fluttered below the deep brown eyes. "Lorelei," the woman said. "King Arthur's nurse's sister's niece."

"King who?" Fate Two spoke up. Her hair was spangled with diamonds.

"Arthur. Pendragon. He was popular in the Middle Ages," Lorelei sighed, "a king no one believes in anymore."

There was an awkward silence.

"But was he handsome?" Fate Three finally asked.

"Ohhhh," Lorelei giggled. "Beyond anything I can imagine. He was a knight, you know. He had to have had very big arms, very big…other things…medieval passion and what-what."

Fates Two and Three giggled.

"I've heard of Arthur Pendragon before," Fate One mused. "Someone mentioned it to me…ah yes. During a dance."

"A man mentioned it?" Fate Two cooed. "Who?"

"That short one, the one with snake's eyes…Bellet. Beckett. Yes, Beckett."

"Oh yes," sighed Fate 2. "That Company monster."

"He's got more nerve than any man here," Fate Three said bitterly. "I've heard he's got his sights on Miss Rowe."

"And that he loves more than just her money," Fate One added archly.

"Well, Miss Rowe is beautiful, but…impossible." Fate Three slapped her closed fan against the armrest.

"I saw him watching her once," Fate One said loftily. "Moonstruck, I tell you."

The other two giggled. Lorelei did too, but her voice cracked.

"It's a tragedy in the making," Fate One sighed glamorously. "She'd never even spare him a glance. She's too busy lining up her beaus in order of affluence-"

Suddenly, the lady herself swept up in a wash of glittering sapphires and diamonds. "There you are," Miss Rowe said to Lorelei. The Fates blinked up at her, dazzled, as she took Lorelei's arm and pulled her up. "There's someone I want you to meet. Ladies," she inclined her head with its pile of curls gracefully to the Fates, and escorted Lorelei away.

She gave a bright laugh as they walked away. "That fast bath my maid gave you did you some good," she muttered.

"You'll pay for it, I swear on my hat," Lorelei muttered back.

"Ah, here he is!" Miss Rowe exclaimed. They came up to a tall, blond man in a lordly suit of forest green. "Miss Lorelei, this is Lord Dunham. I insist that you let him escort you!"

"My lady." The tall man bowed, blue eyes carefully blank.

Lorelei curtsied and fluttered her fan. When Lord Dunham offered her his arm, she took it.

Miss Rowe gave them an arch smile. "The perfect couple. Ah, I do adore a good bout of matchmaking…"

She strolled off.

Lord Dunham and Lorelei sauntered in the opposite direction. On their way out, they passed the fox, who was leaning against a wall, half in shadow. The candlelight accentuated the coy glower of his mask as his eyes passed over the couple and caught on something beyond them.

Miss Rowe swept down the room toward him, collecting compliments and smiles. A train of admirers trailed after her. The fox's hand involuntarily jerked toward his waistcoat, fingers reaching for a subtle bulge. He remembered himself just in time and wrenched his hand back to his side as Miss Rowe's blue eyes landed on him.

"My Lord Fox," she trilled melodiously, gesturing with her handkerchief. Suddenly the tiny square of lace flew from her hand, and she gasped as it floated to the fox's tall boots.

"My lady." Slowly, the fox bent and picked it up. He extended it to her. She reached out. He pulled it back. He brought the fabric to his mouth and kissed it. She blushed prettily behind her fan, but when their eyes met, the hatred that flashed between them was palpable.

"Forgive my forwardness, but I could not help myself," he said, smoothly extending it once again. "You truly are a goddess and a poor mortal must not be held accountable for his behavior in the presence of one such as yourself."

"Please," she simpered, "keep it, my Lord Fox." With a brittle smile, she continued on.

Jaw clenched, the fox ignored the jealous glares of Miss Rowe's passing court. He quickly moved off, surreptitiously ripping the kerchief to shreds and leaving them scattered behind him like the rooster feathers that had ruined his evening.

Minutes later, Miss Rowe was intercepted by the tall Lord Dunham. As they greeted each other, he gave her a wide smile. _All is well_. He received an equally wide smile in return.

After the ball, everyone said that Miss Rowe had never looked so radiant.


End file.
